poet | editor | designer | creative

Five-Fifteen

How silly of me to think I would be the one to hurt him, that I would turn a heel upon the left aorta of his heart. No, how silly of me. I am watching me bleed out.

Things feel very.. unsettled. I know I haven’t posted in weeks, I apologize. I became rather preoccupied with finishing out the remainder of the semester–halfway through a Masters of Education program with a 3.95GPA and I won’t be returning. I’m still designing the move to Baltimore. It makes me so nervous.
I’m mostly roped up in mitigating my involvement with the aforementioned man. I thought I was a basketcase but he really challenges me. It’s nice to have a man that occasionally craves involving me in his life, but he’s so inconsistent. Irrational. I can’t let myself believe desperation is sincerity. His emotions are all muddled but intense. He gets immersed in them and pushes me away when I try to help. He wants help but he won’t accept it. Nutty.
SO, I enjoy his company when he allows it and when it’s convenient for me. The sex is still solid.

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I’m mitigating my involvement
with his lips but signing blind
contracts with his hips. Love
is an itch at the back of his
throat and I’m tonguing it
like a wound, keeping it raw.
Too sore to touch. The heat
of his breath on my chest
when I’m thick with sleep burns
holes in my lungs. I’m short
of breath and short on luck
when I’m ankle deep in the slow
crawl of dreams bathed in the legs
of cicadas floundering like I do,
squirming away from love.